


Center

by yeaka



Series: Eye of a Prize [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Ficlet, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 15:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10389615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Círdan comes to see a withdrawn omega too scared to sail.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is set in the same ‘unwanted!omega-refuge!Imladris’ setting as An Echinops Abacus, but it’s in no way necessary to read that for this. Pairing voted by Aurawolfgirl200. Fair warning I have 0 clue how to write either of these boys.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“These are his quarters,” Elrond explains, rapping once on the wooden door. From within, there’s silence, but Elrond seems to expect this and waits. The elf inside was absent from the morning’s celebrations and the evening’s feast, and Círdan has accepted that if he wishes to meet the occupant, he’ll have to do it here. 

Eventually, a muffled voice calls, _“Who is it?”_

“There is a guest for you,” Elrond answers for him, and for the best—the voice sounded both weary and wary, but Elrond is a hard elf to distrust. A withered sigh from the other side is barely audible, and then Elrond drops his voice to quietly add, “You cannot shut the world out forever, Celebrimbor.”

Finally, they’re bid, _“Come in.”_

Círdan looks to Elrond, but his host only nods and gestures to the handle. When Círdan takes it, Elrond turns to leave. Once, it would’ve worried Círdan—he isn’t one to deal with little lords. But he’s handled elves of all kinds now, and he thinks he’s gained enough wisdom to handle this by himself. Elrond’s presence, perhaps, would only dilute things. 

Inside, the curtains are drawn, but candles line the dark room, producing spots of gold-orange spheres of light, enough to make the bed visible. The elf, who must be Celebrimbor, sits there, lap covered in blankets and back propped against the headboard. His robes are informal, loose—hardly the sort of things his uncles would wear. Though he shares many features—high cheekbones, sharp eyes, bow lips that could sneer as quickly as smile—Círdan must remind himself that this elf is a wholly different being. Beneath his robes many bandages are looped around his chest, and his neck is wrapped, his face scarred in a myriad of burns and cuts. Only memories of the war keep Círdan’s footsteps moving forward. The injuries are all long healed, as much as wounds from a Maia can be, but they’re still a terrible sight on such an otherwise attractive creature. As Círdan reaches the edge of the bed, he scolds himself; battle scars need not detract from beauty. 

Celebrimbor was, is, a fully handsome being, not all that far from his grandfather. Círdan spends a silent moment simply eyeing the similarities. Celebrimbor’s dark hair is as smooth and silken as any, but it’s drawn into a ponytail that drapes no lower than his shoulders—at one point, it must’ve been cut off.

He frowns as he looks at Círdan, but there’s no recognition in his eyes. He likely sees only another alpha, come for the promise of his Fëanorian blood. It isn’t hard to guess why none have successfully left with him.

Círdan isn’t sure he came for that, only on Elrond’s suggestion, and the opportunity to heal. He asks, “May I sit?” and Celebrimbor nods.

There’s probably a chair somewhere in the room that would do, but Círdan takes his seat on the edge of the bed. Before he can say anymore, Celebrimbor tells him bluntly, “I will never be any more pleasing to the eye than I am now. I am told I was lucky to survive, if this existence can at all be considered _lucky_ , and it’s left me as sour as I look.”

Círdan thinks a moment for an appropriate response. It would be a lie to say he hadn’t at all considered claiming the omega he came to see—he has, after all, faced more years than most in loneliness. He would base his choice on more than appearance, but chooses the personal approach: “There is no shame in either form of scars. You have every right to be reserved.”

Celebrimbor snorts bitterly. “I am not merely _reserved_. I was young and trusting once, and it lost me far more than my forge.”

Círdan lifts an eyebrow, because compared to him, Celebrimbor is still very young. He says only, “I am sorry.”

Celebrimbor averts his eyes and rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. He’s likely more than used to pity. Círdan gives him the chance to say more on the subject, but when nothing comes, Círdan suggests, “You could sail West. Beyond the seas, you could be saved.”

Immediately, Celebrimbor’s head snaps around. He fixes Círdan with a sharp look, frowning, surprise in his eyes, though it’s the logical advice for any elf. He opens his mouth once, then closes it, and it draws Círdan to watch their supple curves. In a way, none of his features are drastically changed, only decorated with new patterns, embellished and thickly painted. The delicate hands that rest atop the blankets look oddly calloused and strangely angled, as though they’ve been broken and put together again not _quite_ right, but there’s uniqueness in their new lines. 

Celebrimbor finally shakes his head. “Who would take me? I am from a line of kinslayers, and I have knowingly betrayed even my own father... and what I’ve done beyond that... who I’ve toiled with... I would never be allowed in...”

“That is not for you to decide,” Círdan tells him firmly. “When you are claimed, you will be forgiven by your alpha’s grace. You will be not of your fathers but of a new bond, and you will have a new blessing through it.”

“But who would have me?” Celebrimbor presses, and now his cold exterior has slipped into distress—Círdan has to remind himself that this poor creature was young, far too young, when he was betrayed. Círdan doesn’t miss the way he clutches tightly to the sheets, shoulders tensing—it isn’t that he doesn’t _want_ an alpha, as Círdan might have first thought, but that he thinks himself a burden. It’s not unusual, Círdan knows, for lone omegas in Elrond’s care to need such reassurance. It’s still more difficult than Círdan predicted. 

Slowly and gently, he takes one of Celebrimbor’s hands. He rubs his thumb soothingly across Celebrimbor’s knuckles, and Celebrimbor loosens his tight grip on the blanket. Círdan turns his hand over, then follows suit with the other. It’s unmistakable. Both hands are warped in little flecks where fire struck them, but Círdan can still see their talent. He’s worked with his hands all his life, and he knows a fellow builder when he sees one. He lifts his gaze again to catch Celebrimbor’s. He reports, “You still hold great skill. I admire that.” Celebrimbor’s cheeks stain a delicate pink, and Círdan presses, “Any alpha would be lucky to hold these. You are still strong and still beautiful, if in a different way than you once were. You have much to offer.”

Celebrimbor doesn’t look like he believes it. He looks quite cute when he blushes, the harder surface melted away. He admits, “I fear to sail alone...”

“There are many across the sea who would welcome you. But you cannot stay here, alone, in such turmoil. I am sure Lord Elrond has told you that. He wants you to find an alpha here, to take peace and comfort in that, or to go and be welcome into the arms of the Valar.” Celebrimbor winces, though Círdan is certain Celebrimbor would be permitted in the Valinor and find someone soon enough. He continues, “I am a shipwright, and I have watched many sail. If you wish company to the harbour...”

Celebrimbor lets out a little, “Oh,” and slips his hands from Círdan’s grasp. He looks suddenly miserable again, and at Círdan’s lifted brow, he mumbles, “I... forgive me, I had thought you were an alpha... one who came to look at me, I mean...”

“I am that too,” Círdan decides, even if it wasn’t his original intent. In retrospect, Elrond might’ve planned for this. He feels compelled to add, “But I am quite old for you, and I plan to be the last elf standing on these shores.”

Celebrimbor’s eyes go wide. Círdan can see the quick spark of interest in them—perhaps that’s what Celebrimbor wants, to deny himself the far shores as long as possible. He licks his lips and pauses, then asks, “But... would you...?” The question hangs, unfinished but obvious.

He most likely would. But Círdan’s never been one for haste. He answers slowly, “I have only just met you. But I would consider myself quite lucky to have one so talented...”

“I still have that,” Celebrimbor presses, suddenly breathless—he leans forward in bed. “If I were only given a forge again, I could prove most useful! My tools are gone, but my mind is unscathed.”

It abruptly occurs to Círdan to ask: “Then why has Lord Elrond not given you access to one?”

Celebrimbor wilts again. But he shakes it off and says, “I... I have... flashbacks, sometimes... and the fire stirs up guilt I still carry. They cannot always supervise me. But, if I had an alpha... one that felt my pain and would hold me and keep me from lapsing into memory, I...” He wets his lips, clearly thinking, eyes suddenly far off. Círdan recognizes the look in them. It’s rare for him to find one so creatively drawn as himself, but he can tell that this one feels a similar calling. If Círdan were unable to construct his ships, to both design and form, he would likely become equally reserved. 

While he runs this over in his mind, Celebrimbor reaches forward to take one of Círdan’s hands. He squeezes it tightly and asks, “Will you take me? I will be no trouble, I promise, and whatever I craft shall be yours.”

Círdan has no need for trinkets. His visions are larger, but the small has equal value. He finds himself nodding, and Celebrimbor, bursting with a brilliant smile, surges forward suddenly, pressing his mouth to Círdan’s. Círdan merely freezes in shock, while Celebrimbor’s soft lips brush over his. _Heat_ instantly sparks beneath his skin, the connection of an omega giving him a temporary wave of dizziness—it’s been far, far too long. Sometimes, there is no pleasure so great as simple _touch_.

As Celebrimbor slowly retracts, Círdan quietly asks, “Do you really wish for this?”

“Yes,” Celebrimbor insists with Noldor surety. “You are kind, I can tell, and you are wise and like-minded. I have need of that. And I have not felt any interest for an alpha in many long years, but you, somehow, have stirred it in me.”

Círdan shares the sentiment. Nonetheless, he insists, “I will not rush into this. We may explore it, during my stay, and I do hope that at the end, it will be right for you to return with me.” Celebrimbor nods in understanding, and Círdan, wanting that broad smile back, offers his arm to suggest, “Let us start with the forge.”

Beaming, Celebrimbor follows him up.


End file.
